“Frederick St. Clair.”
“A 've seen a mair cheerfu' letter,” and Drumsheugh looked at the fathers from above his spectacles; “but it micht be waur. A 'll guarantee the Professor 's no as far through wi 't as Saunders, an' yonder he is alive and livin' like,” nodding in the direction where that brawny man propped up the gable of the kirk with his shoulders and maintained a massive silence with Tammas Mitchell.
“Nae doot, nae doot,” said Hillocks, deriving just encouragement from the study of Saunders's figure; “aifter the wy Weelum Maclure brocht Saunders through a' wud houp for the best gin a' wes Bogleigh.”
“Sae a' wud, neeburs,” and David came forth again, “gin we hed oor laddie at hame an' oor ain man tae guide him. But there's nae Weelum Maclure oot yonder—naebody but strangers.”
“We micht ask the doctor tae pit up a prayer,” suggested Hillocks; “it cudna dae ony mischief, an' it's aye a comfort.”
“He daurna dae't,” cried David, whose mind was quickened by grief; “it 'ill be a' ower lang syne, an' it 's no lawfu' tae pray for... the dead.”
“Dinna be feared, Bogie,” said Jamie; “the doctor'ill tak the responsibeelity himsel, and ye may be sure he 'ill get some road oot o' the wood. It wud be a puir kirk the day gin we cudna plead wi' the Almichty for oor Professor.”
“Ye hae the word, Jamie,” said Drumsheugh, “an' a 'll gang in an' tell the doctor masel;” but Whinnie confessed afterwards that he thought this prayer beyond even the doctor.
It followed the petition for the harvest, and this was how it ran—the Free Kirk people had it word for word by Monday—
“Remember, we beseech Thee, most merciful Father, a father and mother who wait with anxious hearts for tidings of their only son, and grant that, before this week be over, Thy servant who is charged with many messages to this parish may bring to them good news from a far country.”